


Ring

by GrimLegate



Series: Requiems For Tomorrow [4]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Angst, Final Fantasy XIV: Heavensward Spoilers, Grief, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Inktober, Inktober 2019, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-10 19:49:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20857298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrimLegate/pseuds/GrimLegate
Summary: Three rings adorn the fingers curling around the handle of a tankard, and a broken man chases answers to the bottom of so many bottles.





	Ring

Gibrillont does not question, when the man stumbles to a table, wordlessly begging for a drink. He does not question, when the flagons begin to pile up, and the moon has stretched far into the sky now, and the other’s ears lay flat against his head. He does not question the tears that lay unshed in his eyes, or the way he fumbles with his fingers.

Gibrillont does not question why he drinks alone this night.

When the tenth flagon rolls off of the table, he sends one of the girls to go get Aymeric. He thinks for a moment, to have one of the Fortemps boys come and get him, but perhaps sending him to that home, where a ghost of a memory walks the halls, would send him right back here the next night.

He almost wishes that the other wouldn’t come here, so that he didn’t have to see another man breaking down before him – to see the Warrior shattering under the constant pressure that was put upon his shoulders. But Gibrillont knows the man’s friends, knows he could get Aymeric, that Raen man with the small girl, or even Count Edmont and his sons. Here, he is safe, and he can drink without fear of being shivved and dying out in the cold.

His head lies upon the table now, and the elezen can see how the other turns his hands over and over as he looks along the bands of metal there. His eyes are glazed over, with both the liquor in his belly, and the tears that have formed a film over his eyes.

The first, he does not know. An ornately carved, silver ring, a polished amethyst flickering with the light of the flame burning within the hearth. When his eyes brush over the surface, his expression is unreadable, giving only the furrow of his brow and the twitch of his lips.

The second, a signet ring, bearing the Fortemps crest. He knows not which the worst is, this or the final band of metal across his fingers. This one had come the latest, a gift from the Count. He had been decreed one of his sons, and Gibrillont had a sneaking suspicion that no one in the city would dare voice an opinion otherwise. He knew that Edmont loved the other as if he was his own, and the barkeep wondered for a moment, if that love was regifted to the miqo’te.

The final band was gold, a beautiful piece of craft, so simple and elegant, without a single flaw. He had seen it when the silver-haired owner had pulled it from his pocket, turning it over his fingers while his drunken eyes tried to focus on the band. Gibrillont had known that something was up, knowing that the other was not wont to imbibe, on most any occasion. But the solemn, crooning voice that he had spoken in, when he told the man of his plan to propose had rekindled the hope that he kept close to his heart.

The door creaks open upstairs, one of his serving girls with her skirts pulled up, nearly hopping down the steps with the Lord Commander at her heels. He nods to her, reminding himself to pay her a little more for her troubles, and when he catches the other man’s eye, he motions to the tiny table that lies in the corner of the room. Aymeric’s eyes soften, and he drops a pile of gil upon the table, which he tries to push away.

“Please, take it – I know not if he has paid,”

“He has.”

“Then it shall be a token of my gratitude, for keeping him from harm.” Aymeric turns to watch the miqo’te, who hasn’t even realized he was there. “Has he been like this all night?”

“Hasn’t said a word – to me or anyone else.”

Aymeric’s lips purse, and Gibrillont watches him as he skirts by the table, gently rousing the other with a touch upon his shoulder. Rhitaas’ purple eyes are cloudy, missing that notable shine that brings life to his eyes, and simply _stares_.

“I suppose you are here for me.” He whispers, though it carries across the empty tap room, the soft hush of a ghost of a man. He rises, waving away Aymeric’s hand as he attempts to help him. “I am capable.” Aymeric hovers, waiting for any sign that he needs to dart forward to catch him, but as far as he is into his cups, the man stands without assistance. It was almost alarming, how unaffected he seemed by the drinks, and his own worry echoes upon the other’s face, as Rhitaas picks his way from the corner, eyes upon the floor. Aymeric stands there for a moment, the lord unsure of what to do.

Gibrillont ushers the other after the Warrior, who ascends the stairs with an almost corpse-like shambling, and the man darts after him. Now, the bar was completely silent, all but for the fire crackling away in the hearth. One of the girls poked her head out from the door behind him, looking to the corner with a frown, as she swept the flagons into her apron.

“Ten. _Ten_. The Fury’s tits, why would you let him get such a way?” The girl grouses, and the barkeep frowns. _Because I’ve seen half-dead men. I’ve seen men who the beer in the belly is the only thing that keeps them from spillin’ their guts upon the snow. I’ve seen the look of a man fighting his own mind._

“I won’t let it happen again.” He was nearly certain that Aymeric would have had his head for Rhitaas’ state of inebriation. He shuffles the rag in his hand, frowning to himself. The Warrior had always been pleasant, especially when he had come to visit Tataru. He was bright and had a wit sharp enough to keep up with any of the off-duty knights that poked fun at him. To see such a man fall so low, to know the horrible things that had happened to someone who had already given so much…

He looked up, questioning his faith.

\---

Aymeric only needs to steer Rhitaas towards his home, the miqo’te perfectly capable on his feet. The smell of liquor hangs off of him, and even from where the elezen is stood a few fulms away, it burns in his nose. To say this was the first time he had retrieved the other from The Forgotten Knight, would be a lie. It was the fourth time he had plucked the other from the tavern, though this was the first time the other had been able to carry himself.

It was strange, he had counted the drinks on the table, and there had been more than the times that he had to get Lucia to carry him upon her back while he played damage control. The silence was unbearable, and Aymeric wished for nothing more than to turn and grab hold of the other. He wanted to shake him, to beg him to burden him with his emotions, for the other to spill his guts until there was nothing left but the jagged, raw wound clear of its festering.

But Rhitaas refused. There was not a power upon this star that could force the other to open up, to speak more upon his problems than empty platitudinal reassurances that he just needed a good night’s rest.

The miqo’te held himself perfectly still as Aymeric opened the door to the estate, maneuvering him through the halls to the guest bedroom that had become the man’s designated room. He began the process of stripping the other of his clothes, but once more Aymeric’s hands were brushed away, while Rhitaas disrobed himself. Clasps and buckles fell away, and his hands were still, as though he were stone-cold sober.

There’s a knock at the door, and Aymeric thanks the manservant, taking the cup of tea from his hands as he presses it into Rhitaas’.

“It’s made just the way you like?” He tries to coax him, and he strangles a sob in his throat as those lilac eyes, dead and tired, simply gaze at his own hand curled around it, to the rings that glitter coldly in the lantern-light. Aymeric waits, and waits, until he is sure that the tea is cold, before he gives up, his shoulders sagging.

“You know where my room is, should you need me.” He all but whispers, turning on his heel and walking out of the door, where silence swallows the space where he had been. Rhitaas sets the cup down on the dresser, and a part of his mind sneers at him, but the liquor rushing through him manages to stifle that, along with every miserable though that had driven him to seek out the bar in the first place. He rolls over onto his side, closest to the chamber pot – still having enough sense to know better than to vomit all over Aymeric’s floor.

His eyes soften at the thought of the man, who hovers nearby and desperately tries to help him, to fill the void where his light had been snuffed out. He desperately tries to kindle the fire, to keep him from going out, and yet Rhitaas can barely summon the strength to act as little more than a mommet.

His hand stretches out in front of him, and once more his eyes settle on those three rings, regarding each with melancholy, with anger, with hurt and love and agony, until a fresh wave of haze blankets those sharp feelings, like handling glass through fabric.

The emotions aren’t quite so sharp, and he does not know how long he lays there, staring.


End file.
